


Fury

by SephrinaRose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, American Fighting, Angst, Character Death, Civilian Lydia, Death, Gen, Guns, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Nazi Germany, Protective Derek, Protective Pack, Sergeant Derek, Solider Isaac, Solider Jackson, Solider Scott, Solider Stiles, Swearing, Tank Warfare, Tanks, Teamwork, War, Warnings in last chapter end notes, Word Count 10000-15000, World War Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SephrinaRose/pseuds/SephrinaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fury.</p><p>Stiles had always pondered the word.</p><p>He'd never known it as a child. All he'd ever known was his mother tucking him into bed, his father playing with him on the farm under the warm Californian sun.</p><p>He'd never known anger or angst. Never known fury.</p><p>But then the war came for USA, and Stiles was uprooted and pushed along in the flow. Unaware and frightened, into enemy territory with only his ability to type sixty words a minute.</p><p>Then he was introduced to Fury.</p><p>(This story is safe ground for all. There is no discrimination or blame placed on neither German or Jewish. This was not your fault, nor did anyone deserve it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. If you are expecting some cheerful war or love story, this is not it. 
> 
> This is real.
> 
> As real as I could get without falling out of plot line or going too deep down the rabbit hole. And I'm sorry for any grievances this may cause. This is still not a very discussed subject, and I don't think it ever will be. 
> 
> Because this is evidence of the extent of evil capable by human beings.
> 
> I have avoided labelling the aggressors as "German" because this was not the German people's fault. Hitler was a skilled manipulator and orator. He twisted so many minds.
> 
> The aggressors are instead the "Nazi". 
> 
> My knowledge is not perfect on what happened, and I'm sure people know more than me. I am studying Modern History in school, and this semester has been all about Nazi Germany. 
> 
> But, I have left out some of the more horrible things that occurred. This is an American point of view, so it is safe ground for anyone Jewish. You will not see discrimination of your community in this story.
> 
> I think that's been done enough to last to the end of the universe. And then some.
> 
> But, please. Enjoy. Let me know what you think or let me know if my facts are wrong. I didn't delve too deep, so it won't be too harsh or too gory. But, this is still war. From Stiles' POV.
> 
> If you are concerned, please message me with any questions if you are uncomfortable.
> 
> Inspired by: Fury, starring Brad Pitt and Logan Lerman.
> 
> Stay well, everyone.

Fury.

Stiles had always pondered the word.

He'd never known it as a child. His childhood was filled with happy memories. His mother tucking him into bed, his father playing with him in the backyard under the warm Californian sun.

He'd never known anger or angst. Never known fury.

He was born in 1927 to Claudia and John Stilinski. Living in a small farming town in the middle of California. They didn't have much, but the wheat they produced under a large company kept them safe unlike the others he'd known. The ones that moved away to the cities to seek work as the depression swallowed their worth.

His father was always worn from the sun, working hard on the same farm his father had worked on. The farm that Stiles would work on too. But only because they were the lucky ones.

They didn't have much. But it was okay. Stiles had been happy.

His father had told him farming was the best job in the world. Outside in the warm sunshine, breathing in the fresh air from the sea. Unlike the harsh cities where hundreds slummed and the air was filled with the putrid scents wafting from the factories.

They were American. Living the life of the free.

Mom used to tell him stories about the homeland. Because they, much like most on this land, had immigrated here. From Poland. Travelled the miles with the railroad, trekking across the nation to set up in this warm and dusty place.

She told him that life was cramped. That she and her sisters slummed together in their small house in Poland, sleeping the nights in one bed and eating only scraps. She said she was glad those days of cramped spaces where behind them.

His mother promised he'd never had to live that way. That he would forever live in this free land, the warm sun in his skin and the fresh air in his lungs.

But she didn't see the war coming.

He was fifteen when the news rolled in on their radios. That Nazi Germany had invaded Poland. Invaded the country his Ma both loved and ran away from.

Then all he could hear was the news. And the same words repeated over and over.

Nazi.  
Nazi.  
Nazi.

And he sat, ageing in front of that radio. Turning from a boy to a man, shoulders filling out and jawline growing sharper. Listening to the war happening.

In another place. Another time. Millions of miles away.

But then Pearl Harbour was bombed, and then the war wasn't so far away. Because The United States of America was at war.

He was too young to enlist, unlike the boys in his town. He remembered watching them ride away on horseback the nearest enlisting station. Hooves kicking up the dust as they disappeared into the distance.

He thought he understood. That through this radio, he understood the war. Knew it well from all those years he sat there. Listening.

...But then the war came for him too.

At eighteen it was his turn. In 1945 it was time for him to join this effort. To fight these Nazis he'd heard so much about. To help America reach victory over their enemies.

His mother tried to hold him back. To keep him close. Because she, like many other of her generation, remembered the first war. The one he'd only heard about in stories. She saw what it did to the nation. Saw what it did to the families.

She saw it take people's sons from them.

She begged him, but that wasn't the way. He had to help the war. It was the duty of his generation, just like his fathers generation whom had fought in the one before.

He was intelligent, the teacher at his small school has said so. So when the army came, desperate for more soldiers: They grabbed him immediately.

They took him from his town. From his family.

He hugged his mother tight, and she held his face in shaking hands: demanding he come back to her. But, he had only buried his face into her hair.

Because he couldn't promise that.

His father had prepared him for the day, staring into his eyes telling him to keep his head down and ears open. That was how you got through. Then his father hugged him, and told him that he loved him. And that he would pray for him.

Then Stiles left. Casting dust into the air like those boys all those years ago.

His training wasn't conventional. He was to be in communications, not on the front line. Learning to type sixty words a minute.

And that was all the training he got.

Because then Adolf Hitler got desperate. Now, Stiles knew desperate. He may not know fury, but he knew desperation. He knew what it did to people. To the farmers as the ground dried up, as money dispersed and their worth vanished.

He knew desperation.

So when Hitler became desperate, he was horrified but not shocked at what he did. Because he made every German man, woman and child fight for the Nazis.

And he set all forces against them.

USA troops were reshuffled to deal with the desperate threat, Stiles uprooted and pushed along in the flow. Unaware and frightened, into enemy territory with only his ability to type sixty words a minute.

Then he was introduced to Fury.

 

_________

 

Fury was a noun. It was defined as a wild or violent anger. Stiles knew that when he was in fifth grade.

...But that wasn't it's only meaning.

It was also a group of people. A USA elite tank crew.

They were the Fury.

 

_________

 

"Are you Sergeant Hale sir?" Stiles said, trudging through thick mud to catch up with the man he'd been told to report to. The man didn't even face him. Stiles had seen little but his broad back and black hair.

"Maybe. And who are you?" The man said, not stopping.

"Private Stilinski. I was told to report to you, as your new assistant driver." Stiles said, hiking his duffle higher on his shoulder. The man finally stopped walking, dirty and unshaven face looking over a broad shoulder, cigarette between his lips as he regarded the younger man.

"No, you are not." He said, turning back and walking on.

Stiles blanched. He didn't know much about this crew, only that this man was the commander of a M4A3E8 Sherman tank and its five-man, all-veteran crew. He also knew that that the tank's original assistant driver/bow gunner, Red, had been killed in a battle that had killed all the rest of Fury's regiment.

And he was next in place.

"Ah...sir? Yes, I am."

"Damnit." The man said, stopping and looking back at him while sighing. "Who told you this?"

The man looked him over, and Stiles knew he looked quite the picture with his clean face and bright eyes. He stood out amongst the battle worn and mud caked soldiers that passed them by.

"Ah. The sergeant with the clipboard." Stiles said.

"Bullshit."

"No.. He's.. He is right there." Stiles said, pointing at the man in question a few meters away

The man eyed him and he was reminded of this crews reputation. Their vicious anger. Their unstoppable fury.

"What's your name?" The sergeant asked.

"Stiles." He answered, nervously.

The sergeant sighed.

"How long you been in the army boy?" The man asked, and Stiles turned his eyes to the hulking mans shoulders as they trudged on.

"Eight weeks, sir." Stiles answered honestly. The sergeant whipped around the face him, unusual coloured eyes staring at him. Stiles looked up at him, Amber eyes staring up at him questioningly.

"Do as you are fucking told." Sergeant grunted then, harsh and guttural. Stiles flinched at the brazen language, he'd been raised not to swear. The battle worn man sighed at him, then turned back to walk on.

"Come on then." He grunted, and Stiles was quick to follow his long determined steps. The man lead him through camp, passed the cries of the wounded in their healing tent and the fenced area in which their captured enemy back stared at them all.

Stiles stumbled in the mud, taking in everything with wide eyes as he followed the older man.

"Boy, meet Fury." The man said after a while, stopping. Stiles turned to see three men sitting on top of the dirty and muddy tank.

Stiles saw the word "fury" written in white paint on the main cannon. Or at least he thought it to be the cannon. He knew nothing of tanks or war equipment. Only a typewriter.

Stiles held a hand out to the men.

"Hello, I'm Stiles." He said. The men only stared at him.

Stiles lowered his hand.

One of the men got off the tank with practised ease, grabbing his duffle off him. Stiles let him, afraid of the consequences should he not. The man's muddy blond head of curls bowed to dig into Stiles' bag.

But when the man pulled out his bible and staring flicking through the pages with grimy hands, Stiles acted.

"Stop it." He said, reaching for the book. The man shoved him with his other hand. Stiles reached for it again. "Give me back my book."

"Where are your smokes?" The man asked. Stiles grabbed the book in the time it took him to speak.

"I don't smoke." Stiles answered, holding the bible to his chest. His mother had given it to him as a gift when he was eleven. It's meaning was as precious as the book itself to Stiles.

"I think this may be a mistake." Stiles said a moment later, turning to the sergeant. Surely it had to be. Stiles was so very much out of his zone here. But, the sergeant just eyed him impassively.

"The army doesn't make mistakes." He said shutting him down almost immediately, and Stiles could only stare at him. The man dropped his cigarette to the ground, and he didn't even need to grind it beneath his foot: it extinguished upon touching the wet mud.

"Been to tank school?"

"No. I've never even seen the inside of tank. I'm a clerk typist. They pulled me off a truck and now I'm here."

Sergeant cursed under his breath.

"Are you a religious man, boy?" One of the other men said after a moment, sitting above him on the tank. Stiles turned to look at him. The man's hair was stuck to his forehead in dark matted curls. He looked the youngest of the squad.

"Yes." Stiles answered rather hesitantly.

"Are you saved?" The man asked, cigarette moving up and down in his mouth as he spoke.

"...I am baptised, yes." Stiles answered, a little confused. He didn't know what the army viewed Christianity as. But by the tone, he guessed it wasn't appreciated here.

"That wasn't my question. I said are you saved, boy?" Stiles frowned, opening his mouth to answer when somebody else interrupted.

"Stop harassing him, McCall." Sergeant grunted, flicking out a new cigarette. A nasty habit, Stiles could say. But he didn't. "Boy, get water from over there and start cleaning the tank."

Stiles was quick to obey, leaving his duffle in the mud to find water. The water came out dirty, tinted brown and with dirt floating through it. But Stiles didn't know why he expected otherwise.

War was never clean.

When he came back, the Sergeant was gone. The other men seemed to be doing something productive, the McCall man sat up on top of the thing with the top half of his body in one of the holes.

Stiles stood, unsure. McCall came up with some equipment of a sort, noticing Stiles.

"What you doing standing around? Get your ass in here." He said, and for the first time Stiles noticed the cross hanging from his neck. It swung out of his shirt as he leaned over, it's edges glistening in the sun.

Only moments ago he was prodding around Stiles' religion...When it was his own. So, the prodding wasn't about the religion, but to unnerve Stiles himself.

Great.

Pick on the new guy.

Stiles climbed up onto the tank with unsure steps, feet sliding in the mud that covered his boots and the smooth metal surface of the tank. McCall didn't acknowledge him, only sliding back down the tank with a armful of supplies and taking off into the masses of soldiers walking around.

Stiles sighed, heaving the metal bucket into the main hole and climbing down himself. The metal of the edge dug into his side and shoulder and the bucket sloshed threateningly.

It looked so effortless when the other men did it.

The water settled in the bucket as Stiles sat down on the slightly elevated platform...and Stiles was suddenly overwhelmed by the silence.

The tank was filled with junk, empty, but filled with bits of machinery, weapons and mementos scattered everywhere. It was so cramped, like being a tiny metal box. Stiles could bet he would only just be able to fit in length of the space if he was to lay out straight with his arms up.

How were five grown men expected to live and fight in this tiny space?

Stiles rubbed his nose, and he felt the dirt come off on his face. Ruining the clean skin that he'd manger to keep clean. Stiles sighed, because he had a feeling, by looking at the other men...he wouldn't be clean again for a long time.

But he did his best to stand, curled awkwardly with the bucket in his arms to move to the main area and get started.

That was when the stench hit him.

He dropped the bucket, and it landed upright with a echoing clang and watery slosh. Blood covered everything. Fresh, crimson blood. It covered the floor and ventured up the walls in haphazard splatters.

Stiles caught eye of a picture, stained by the splotches of blood. He gently prided it off the wall, coming free with a crack as it peeled away from the blood and tape.

He held it with both hands, staring at the image. It was a man, holding a woman around the shoulders with a child between them. The man was not whom Stiles recognised.

He just have been the one all this blood belonged to.

Stiles eyes unfocused as he thought about his new position. Of this man that was dead, and that Stiles was replacing. And he had no idea how to do anything.

Stiles was going to end up the same.

Stiles shook his head to clear his thoughts, not letting himself go down that road. This was war. He didn't have a choice but to obey. He placed the picture back, picking up his bucket against and moving to start cleaning it away.

He crouched over the mess, leaning against the wall as he started to scrub at the Crimson with a cloth. He felt it stain his hands almost immediately, and he swallowed down the nausea.

But then his eyes caught something. Only a few inches from his face as he froze, moving over the mess.

And then the nausea couldn't be pushed down.

He scrambled away, climbing up and out of the hole. He tumbled down the side of the tank, falling to his hands and knees in the mud.

Then he vomited.

Because there was half of a man's face just laying there in the tank.

He heard laughter as he heaved. And he spat, using the side of the tank to pull himself up. He could feel mud cooling on his knees, but that was the least of his problems.

The man that hadn't spoken to him yet was fixing something on the side of the tank, grinning as he went about his work.

"Welcome to the army, boy." He grinned, all sharp teeth and no humour. Stiles didn't feel comforted at all.

"You are gonna have to acclimatise fast. We've stayed together for almost three years now, we know each other inside and out. We work efficiently because we know each others strengths and limits." The man said, taking the cigarette from his lips and spitting. "You, boy, are nothing." He said.

Stiles cringed.

"Jackson "Coon-Ass" Whittemore, loader." The man said, turning back to his work. "The one from before was Scott "Bible" McCall, our gunner, and the blondy was Isaac "Gordo" Layhey, our driver."

Stiles just nodded, a bit comforted by knowing the names of the men that would be his team.

The man stopped for a second, gloved hands stilling on what looked to be a pipe. He eyed Stiles with piercing blue eyes peering out from the scars across his nose and the dirt that covered him head to toe. Stiles felt the man pick him apart with his eyes, and he just stood there. Unsure.

Then he suddenly tipped his head back and laughed, guttural and genuinely amused.

Stiles stood awkwardly, spitting the last of his vomit from his lip into the mud. The man stopped laughing just as suddenly as he started, wiping a tear from his eye.

"You're gonna die, kid."

And Stiles opened his mouth to rebut....Before he closed it, jaw snapping shut with the taste of blood, vomit and dirt in his mouth.

Because Jackson was right.

He was _damn_ right.

 

_________

 

"What you doing walking him in through here?"

Stiles sat up, watching his sergeant walk towards the Nazi solider that three Americans were pulling through camp. Stiles watched the encounter, trying to shrink into the metal of the tank so the Nazi's eyes wouldn't catch him.

Because this was the enemy he'd heard about millions of times over the radio. The demon that was far, far away.

But he was right there in front of Stiles now.

"Taking him to be questioned by the old man." One of the nameless soldiers said. Stiles watched quietly as his Sergeant stalked closer.

"I'll question him" Hale said, before throwing himself into the man, grappling at the Nazi's ripped uniform.

Stiles flinched at the sudden violence.

But then suddenly the man named McCall was there, helping the other soldiers pull Hale away from the Nazi.

"You gotta stop now." Bible said, he was clinging to the man's back and whispering in his ear. "Don't, Derek. Don't do this anymore."

Hale pushed Bible off him, wiping his face. He then suddenly turned, stepping towards Stiles with his finger pointed accusingly. Stiles shrank back at the glare, even though the anger wasn't directed at him.

"You kill every one of these you see, you understand?" He growled at Stiles. "The SS. They are the real assholes"

"Yes sergeant." Stiles just said, nodding. The man seemed to calm down, composure returning. He eyed Stiles then, taking in his body that was plastered against the tank like he wished it would swallow him.

"You done much killing?" He asked. Stiles shook his head immediately, a little too franticly.

"No."

"You will." He said, before turning to the one they called Gordo, Isaac, if he remembered correctly. Stiles didn't know why they just didn't call him Isaac. The nickname didn't even suit him.

But Hale was staring right at Isaac as he spoke.

"Take him through that gun."

 

___________

 

The tank was moving, rumbling along the ground heavy and sluggish, and Stiles was sitting just barely able to look over the edge of the metal contraption.

He felt so uncomfortable, with the gun between his knees and walls cramping as he tried to hold himself up to see out of the tank clearly.

"Move ya seat up, idiot." He heard Scott mutter from behind him.

"I don't know how." Stiles said, looking around himself.

He felt himself suddenly shift up, and his whole body jarred. He turned to see Isaac laughing next to him, moving his hand away from a lever next to Stiles hip.

"Oi." The sergeants voice was in his ear. Stiles turned forward without uttering a word...to see hundreds of people walking towards them.

Stiles froze, and he stared.

He didn't know what he expected to see in the middle of enemy territory, but it certainly wasn't this.

Men, women, children. All German people. Heads down, lugging their life belongings on their backs and in their arms. Each and every one of them was so dirty and aged by circumstance.

Stiles wondered what good this war was doing anyone.

"There may be wolf amongst the sheep, boy." Sergeant said. Stiles startled, trying to turn and look at him sitting behind and above him on this steel abomination. "Keep your eyes peeled, and cut them down."

Stiles turned back around and stared at the hundreds of people just wandering past, looking so lost and broken. Some of them even had their hands up like they were afraid the Americans would shoot them.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Private?" The sergeant sought.

"Yes sergeant." Stiles whispered, eyes wide and feeling so very claustrophobic.

"Do you copy?"

"Yes sergeant." He said a little stronger. He heard the man sigh through the radio.

"Take him through that gun again Gordo."

 

__________

 

Stiles saw movement in the trees. They were barely passing through some dense forrest, and a small figure was running through the trees. Stiles wondered if it was another one of those broken children.

...But then suddenly there was a explosion.

And he wasn't wondering anymore.

Stiles yelled out, recoiling at the flash of light from the tank right in front of them. When he opened his eyes, there was fire consuming everything in his vision.

And there was screaming and bullet fire filling his head.

Stiles watched, terrified, as a solider stumbled from his tank screaming as fire consumed him. He crawled over on hands and knees to the back of his tank with skin, eyes and hair all burning up in horrible hot flames.

Then the man stood, screaming and crying and beyond all recognition as his skin cracked and blackened. He ripped his gun from the burning holder on his hip.

...And he shot himself right in the head.

Stiles watched as his body crumbled to the ground, flames still licking at his skin and blood. And then there was a loud clang next to his ear. Stiles had no time to move before there was a hand grabbing at his hair.

"Private! Why didn't you take the shot!?" The voice was above him, and there was boot right next to his head. Stiles winced as his hair was tugged painfully.

"It thought it was just a kid, I'm sorry!" He cried, scarred and shocked by the violence he'd just seen.

" _Just_ a kid?!" The sergeant thundered, and Stiles cried out as he felt his scalp bleed. "You see what a kid can do?! Look at that!" He grabbed Stiles' jaw harshly, turning his head to stare at the burning body and flaming tank. Stiles fought against Hale's grip, tears leaking from his wide, terrified eyes.

"This is _your_ fault." The sergeant hissed, releasing him harshly and then he stepped away. Walking over Stiles back to his spot above.

"Alright." The man sighed as he settled. "Seems like I'm it now. Let's keep moving. Do what we were sent to do."

Stiles didn't say anything as they left the burning tank behind.

 

_________

 

"Who's in charge here?" A voice was the first thing to great them at the camp. Stiles watched numbly as soldiers walked past, like this war was old news. Like these monstrous tanks where just something you saw everyday.

...but, for them: it probably was.

"I am." Sergeant greeted the man that stood in the middle of the muddy organised chaos. The man looked at him with that respect thing that seemed to be the only relatively nice expression these soldiers could make.

But Stiles could guessed that war did that to them.

He wondered where all these men would be if the war hadn't happened. And wether the dead ones being stacked on a truck had families waiting for them.

"The old man's waiting." The man said, wiping his brow and pointing behind him with his thumb.

Stiles felt the familiar rumble of the tank moving once again.

 

_________

 

"Alright Sergeant. You seem like man that knows what you are doing." The old man greeted, leaning over a topographical map. "How many tanks we got?"

"Four." Derek answered, and the old man stared at him incredulously.

"Damnit. I asked for ten." The man rubbed his many days worth of grey stubble. He sighed.

"We need to infiltrate this town, take it under our control. From the part we heard from our eyes, there isn't much resistance in the town. Getting there is the hard part."

"Right. What is our angle?"

"Move in from the west. We had eyes here, here and here." The man said, pointing at different locations around the town. "But, the jerry's got them. You are flying blind."

Hale closed his eyes.

"Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, feel free to message or comment if you feel the need to discuss something or would like to know where this story is headed!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> And please, be respectful in the comments. Some are still effected deeply by this war.


	2. Welcome to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was just another soul lost to Hitler and his Nazis.
> 
> And the worst part was knowing that she'd never be buried. She would just lay and rot, amongst the millions of others that had been murdered for this war.
> 
> Stiles had to wonder what the hell it was all for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end notes.

Stiles breathed deep, fingers drumming nervously on the handle of his gun.

He saw Isaac looking at him in his peripheral vision. But Stiles' heart was beating in his ears and he couldn't focus on anything else. He made sure he keep his eyes peeled, watching the horizon.

The air was thick with anticipation as they slowed to a halt.

Stiles stared at the smoke in distance, waiting for their enemy to appear out of the smoke like they did in the stories.

But even then he wasn't prepared for the explosion on his right. He heard screaming as the tank next to them erupted into flames.

Stiles accidentally shot at nothing in his sudden jump in terror, his trigger finger accidentally clamping down. But it didn't matter, it wasn't noticed. Because suddenly bullets were flying everywhere.

And it was so loud.

The enemy was firing from the tree line and from little trenches, their bullets pinging off the tank with sharp short sounds. Each bullet hitting the metal echoed around the hollow tank and in Stiles' ears.

"Light them up!!" The sergeant was yelling. Stiles grabbed his gun tighter, looking around for a enemy as they rolled closer to the tree line.

"Shoot!" Isaac yelled next to him. Stiles spun to look at him, hands shaking wildly.

"What do I shoot at?" He asked, and his voice sounded absolutely terrified.

And that was because he was.

"The nazis, dumb fuck!" Isaac hissed. Stiles nodded frantically, looking forward and shooting into were the bullet fire came from. He flinched at the machine gun bullet fire coming from the gun and the recoil, but he held down his finger.

Stiles hissed as the steam of bullets suddenly halted. He clicked the trigger again, but it echoed emptily. Stiles realised he had run out of bullets.

He scrambled for the magazine next to him, trying to reload the way he'd been taught. It was difficult and time consuming.

"Do your job!" Sergeant yelled in his ear. Stiles flinched.

"I'm sorry...sorry. I'm reloading!!" He cried, standing shaking and the magazine was just not fitting in properly.

The tank suddenly stopped, and Stiles heard battle cries as their ground soldiers attacked. He watched them jump into trenches and shoot heads and his hands were shaking so violently that he dropped the magazine.

He screamed out in frustration, fear and stress taking him over.

"I can't be here anymore!" he yelled, holding his head in his hands. "I give up. I can't be here!"

The tank echoed with his meltdown. Nobody said anything for a while.

"It ain't pretty, but it's what we do." Isaac said next to him, looking at him with worn eyes. Stiles looked over at him with fear filled ones.

And it took everything he had to not burst out in ugly sobs.

 

_________

 

The battle ended, and Stiles still hadn't moved.

Stiles watched Bible walk over to a German solider laying in the mud. The man was still alive, choking on blood. Scott knelt down next to him, holding his hand. And then he was praying with him.

Stiles stared at him numbly. Wondering why he bothered.

God wasn't here.

This war was one of men. Of blood and bullets. Nothing could save you apart for your own skills and dumb luck to not get shot.

They were on their own.

Because God was not here.

_________

 

"I had the best gunner in the entire army in that seat. Now I have you." Hale sighed from behind him.

Stiles' hands shook.

"I promised my crew a long time ago that I would keep them alive. I can't have you getting in the way of that." Hale chided, and Stiles exploded: voice echoing sharply around him.

"Okay, I'm sorry!" He cried, voice echoing in the enclosed space. "I'm not trained for this. And I'm trying my _very_ best"

The tank echoed with the resulting silence after his outburst.

The sergeant said nothing, and Stiles decided he hated it when the man was silent. He was a predator. And when he didn't speak, Stiles didn't know when to expect his rebuttal.

Didn't know what to expect.

The silence drained away and yelling rose from outside. Stiles didn't move, nerves still running high.

Then he heard the Sergeant climb up and out of the tank, the sharp echoing clang sounding as he jumped onto the metal casing over Stiles.

He walked away, moving into Stiles sights from where he sat.

His body blocked whatever confrontation was occurring, but Stiles still heard the a voice in German pleading and babbling. It was incredibly different use of the language from the Sergeants own sharp and precise German.

"Stiles." He heard, and Stiles flinched as the Sergeant used his given name. He'd never done it before. "Get out here."

Stiles climbed out warily, feet moving with small steps over the mud and remaining grass. The Sergeant rounded on him at his appearance, turning away from a German solider that was holding up a picture.

Stiles adverted his eyes from the picture.

He slowed to a halt a few feet away from the circle of men surrounding the German solider. The sergeant just grunted and pulled him along by the scruff of his neck to stand at his side, facing the solider.

He let him go, stepping forward and spinning the German around to face the other way. He yelled something in German, and the man's pleas suddenly grew louder and more frantic.

Stiles' hands shook.

Hale pushed the solider down until he kneeled.

Stiles watched the solider numbly before the Sergeant stood in front of him and pressed something cold into his hand.

"You are no good to me unless you can kill him." The older man grunted. "Put a hole in his back."

Stiles stood still for a moment before his mind caught up, and flinched harshly away, stepping back. He backed away, leaving the gun in the Sergeants hands.

The men in the circle behind him pushed him forward again while jeering at him. He tripped forward, before straightening and holding his shaking hands out in front of him. Like they could protect him.

"No." He said quietly, like he couldn't believe the Sergeant was making him do this.

"Why the hell not." Hale hissed, getting in his space.

"It's not right." Stiles said, trying to hold himself up. Trying to scavenge confidence from somewhere inside him.

"Why are you here?" The man growled in his face. Stiles didn't answer. "Because, see him? He's here to kill you."

Stiles just shook his head, trying to back away. That was when the Sergeant grabbed hold of his head in a vice like grip. The man stared into his eyes, a bare inch away. Stiles stared back at his swirling misty green eyes with his own terrified brown.

"I'm trying to teach you something." He said lowly so only Stiles could hear him. But Stiles just couldn't.

He trembled, lifting his hands to try and pry the older man's grip from his head. The man's grip only tightened painfully.

"He's kills you, or you kill him." The Sergeant said then. Stiles felt a knife of fear pierce through him suddenly.

"Fine!" He yelled, voice high and frightened as his legs buckled. "Kill me......Kill me. _Kill me._ Please! I can't do this."

He fought harshly against the man with the German's frantic pleas filling his ears. He dropped to the ground as the man let him go. He was fighting like and cornered cat in the mud and dirt as Hale grabbed hold of his hair and yanked his head back. He felt Hale curse, kneeling at his side to grab hold of him.

He _screamed_ when Hale grabbed his throat.

Stiles was made immobile, pressed in a tight lock between Hales chest and his arm, his legs scrabbling uselessly against the dirt and grass.

He stilled when he heard a gun load.

The German obviously heard it too, and even with the language barrier Sties could hear him begging for his life. The Sergeant grabbed his wrist, and he felt a gun being forced into his grip. Hale put his own heavy hand around Stiles' to keep his grip firm.

Stiles struggled uselessly against Hale, face pressed against his chest with one terrified eye staring at the man that was about to die.

He cried out and he felt Hale push his finger down on the trigger.

He watched as the German collapsed, before the Sergeant stood and kicked him away. Stiles rolled: curling brokenly on the ground, staring out at nothing.

"Do your damn job." The Sergeant hissed, and walked away. Stiles just laid there, eyes dull and mind numb.

He felt hands on him what felt like a eternity later. "Come on, Stiles. Come on."

It was Scott, pulling him to his feet and away from the bloody mess. But Stiles still looked numbly as the picture of a smiling family was slowly disfigured by hot, red blood.

Scott dragged him away, and Stiles wondered if his mother could have ever been proud of him.

 

_________

 

"Was that supposed to make a man out of me?" Stiles asked as Scott pushed him down to sit on some equipment. He barely registered at the man pushed warm tea into his hands.

"Sergeants shit crazy, but he's solid." Jackson said from across from him, Stiles eyes snapped to him, shock still running through his nerves.

"No crew has stayed together like we have. He keeps us alive." Isaac said from next to Jackson, drinking his tea. Stiles stared down at his, watching the dirt float on the surface. And he didn't even flinch.

He took a sip.

"Move out in fifteen." Sergeants voice called out of the silence, and the men stood up immediately Stiles didn't move, only staring at the man. The man stared back, but didn't say anything. He turned around, going back to wrapping up the mission.

"And Stiles?" He turned back a moment later, and Stiles started at him. "Eat something. I haven't seen you eat all day."

Then he walked away.

It was silent for a moment.

"Eat." Jackson muttered, sipping at his tea while staring out at the smoke in the distance. "And make sure he sees it."

 

_________

 

It was quiet.

Well, as quiet as war would be.

The rumbling of the war machine as it moved along echoed through the tank, magnifying itself and becoming louder than it really was.

But the rumbling was familiar to Stiles now. Safe. Because it was the only thing protecting him from the harsh outside world. From the war.

Because it was all bodies and ash.

"Oh my god." Isaac moaned next to him. Stiles looked up immediately.

And saw a swinging body. Hanging from a buildings roof.

They were everywhere. Hanging from trees and any available spot. People of all ages, sexes...races. All with signs hanging around their necks.

"Those signs around their necks. What do they say?" Stiles asked, eyes wide.

"'I refused to fight for Germany'." Sergeant answered. "Bastards."

Because Stiles knew Hitler was getting desperate, he was here because of that desperation. But now he could see what that desperation could really do. Hitler was killing people that refused to fight for his fallacious cause.

There was no system to this madness. It was just pure evil, swallowing everything like a hungry beast. Destroying everything to feed its insatiable hunger.

Hitler wasn't a dictator anymore. He didn't just command lives and control them.

....He _took_ them.

Because he was just a murderer now.

 

________

 

Stiles' eyes were wide open.

Taking in every cobble stone. Every brick and every windowpane. This city was filled with fire and smoke. And there were enemies hiding in wait. In the shadows and corners of this decrepit town.

The tension was thick, but Stiles didn't have time to wonder if you could have cut it with a knife.

Because then the sounds of bullet fire filled the air.

Stiles immediately started shooting at the windows where it came from. He hear Jackson load the canon, and Scott's yell as he sent it shooting into the wall of glass of a ruined shop's window front.

It erupted into flames.

The screaming started up immediately, and two figures stumbled out of the smoke. They were on fire, screaming as they stumbled away from the searing flames.

Stiles stared at them for a moment.

Then he shot them both in the head.

The screams stopped. They were dead...not in pain anymore.

Stiles didn't know if his action was because of his strength or his weakness. If it was because he was becoming a hardened warrior or if he just didn't want those men to die screaming.

They didn't deserve that. Not when they'd been left behind by their Fürher to defend a town when they had no hope of succeeding.

Not when they had been abandoned by the man that had taken them from their families in the first place.

"Good shooting kid." Hales voice said in his ear. Stiles didn't reply, only staring at their flaming corpses on the cobblestones.

Isaacs voice filled the sudden silence that Stiles refused to fill. He spat his words with such a angry fire that Stiles knew his actions were his weakness. He hadn't become a warrior. Not like them.

"Should have let the bastards _burn_."

 

_______

 

Battle continued through the town, and the Americans were shooting and destroying any form of resistance.

Stiles just did what he was "fucking told".

He shut up, and he shot.

They rolled into a open courtyard, and there a man out the front of building. With his hands up and white handkerchief in hand.

The procession of tanks came rumbling to a halt.

Some soldiers from other tanks climbed out, questioning the man with more aggression that Stiles thought he deserved. The man pointed to the building behind him.

One solider went to open the door, and he stepped back...like he was in shock.

Because then all these children started filing out of the building.

...Child soldiers

Stiles wanted to vomit.

"Oi." Sergeant said from above him, and he pulled his headset from his face. He ran a hand though his own hair.

"Get some rest boys, there's nothing else to fight today."

Jackson cheered, tearing out of the tank dragging Isaac along to find the nearest whore. Stiles gingerly climbed out of the tank, choosing to sit beneath its shadow and drink from his canteen.

"Stiles." Sergeant said, sitting down next to him. "Wasn't nothing right?"

Stiles sighed, looking ways from the man to avoid the twisting of guilt in his hart.

"Yes sergeant."

Hale slapped him on the knee, standing up and rolling out his shoulders.

"Come on, I wanna show you something." He waited for Stiles to stand up before taking him into the buildings off to the right

Stiles followed without question.

Hale lead him through tiny hallways and up steep stairs faded with age and a obvious hasty flee. Stiles kept his eyes on Hales back as they walked. Hale turned off then, to a room. He opened the door and steeped inside. Stiles looked inside, following him in.

And the room was full of shot people.

Laying on couches, dressed in finery all with bullets in their skulls. Like limp and lifeless porcelain dolls.

"They knew we were coming." Hale said, breaking the silence. He was finding with something from the desk in the room.

"So, they got drunk off their faces and shot themselves."

Stiles looked past Hale to look at the picture hanging over the wall behind the desk.

It was a LifeSize picture of Hitler. Looking so regal and self important in the uniform he didn't deserve. That man didn't deserve anything.

Except death.

He'd hurt so many, done so much. And yet he cared so little. Stiles idly wondered what it was like inside his head. But, he shook his head, because he couldn't even imagine such festering evil.

But he still wondered how a single man had killed so many and twisted the minds of many more.

"Ideals are peaceful." Hale said, like he was answering Stiles unasked question. He swirled a half full wine glass that one of these people drank out of before they committed suicide. "History is violent."

 

________

 

They were just walking out of the building when Hale grabbed his arm. He pointed up to where a woman was looking out a window.

The woman disappeared.

"Come on" he said, and Stiles frowned. What did Hale want with this woman? She was just minding her own business.

Hale sped ahead of him, and so by the time Stiles found the little apartment Hale had already had his confrontation and was pulling the woman's hidden daughter from beneath the bed.

"Sergeant?" Stiles asked, and the woman turned to look at him in her doorway.

Stiles suddenly felt really bad for barging into somebody's home uninvited. It was like he'd lost all manners in war.

...He was determined to get them back.

And so he didn't move, he waited to be invited in. Hale said something to the woman, noticing his hesitation. She nodded at him and Stiles stepped inside. The new position let him see the girl Hale had just let go of.

And she was beautiful.

Her hair was red and healthy, and she had pretty green eyes that seemed so knowledgeable.  
She looked at Stiles in what could be considered shy. But Stiles was used to watching his mother and the way her mouth would twist when she she wasn't happy.

Stiles watched her mouth twist in anger.

And Stiles vowed to not be the person she thought he was.

"Stiles, sit at the table. We are having breakfast." Hale said, and he was taking off his gear to get comfortable. Stiles looked at the woman, but she was avoiding his gaze.

Stiles sat down.

He looked around the little home, with clean mirrors and preserved furniture. It was nice, not familiar but homely.

Stiles was used to open spaces at home on his farm.

Not being stacked like sardines in apartment blocks. But he wasn't judging...just understanding what his mother meant about the tightly packed spaced of Europe.

Stiles eyes caught the piano that was pushed against the wall behind him. Then he was reminded of home. And the little old rickety piano in their dining area, just like here.

"Sir?" Stiles asked. The woman's eyes flicked over to him at the sound of his voice, but stayed adverted. The girl began to help as they made was Stiles assumed to be breakfast.

"Yeah?" Hale answered, loosening his utility belt.

"Can I play the piano?"

"I don't see why not." Hale shrugged.

"No...I meant can you ask her if I can play the piano." Stiles amended. Hales eyes narrowed at him, and Stiles was afraid he'd crossed a line.

But then the man sighed, and rattled something out in German. The woman seemed surprised at the request. She looked at Stiles with a new light in her eyes. She nodded.

And Stiles felt that twist of anxiety and guilt in his heart loosen slightly.

He stood, moving to sit on the piano stool. He lifted the cover over the keys, and he tried to remember back to at time before this war.

When he had been twelve, bored out of his mind with nothing to quench his thirst for knowledge. He'd exploded everything on the farm and school wasn't until the next day. His mother had set his fidgeting body down of the stool, and she'd taught him.

He pressed down a note, and it sang through the air. He nodded in appreciation. They knew how to keep a piano in shape. His fingers fell into a easy melody, and he tried to absorb himself in the music.

He was wrenched out when the girl began to sing.

She'd gravitated next to him, and the curiosity in her eyes told him why. She smiled a little at him, and he kept playing. Her voice was singing in German, and even though he had no idea what she was saying...it sounded wonderful.

The song began to come to a close, and the girl smiled widely. Satisfied. Stiles looked up at her and smiled back. But then past her, he saw the mirror. And his Sergeant's naked back in the reflection.

He was covered in thick, old scars.

Hale looked over his shoulder and caught his eyes in the reflection. Stiles stared at him. Hale didn't say anything.

The man turned back around, and then he spoke like the moment had never happened.

"That girl Lydia is clean." Derek told Stiles, and he flinched at his sergeants connotations. Derek seemed to notice his hesitation.

"You take her into the bedroom or I will." He said, lowly. Stiles flinched, and he couldn't make himself move. This was the part of this war he would not participate in. He couldn't do that.

But he felt a hand slip into his.

He turned, to see Lydia looking at him with a small smile. Her eyes looked haunted.

Stiles let himself be led into the room, heart in his throat as the door closed behind them.

 

______

 

It was only when she started to take off her clothes did he act. He moved across the space, grabbing her hands as she undid her blouse. She looked up at him, shocked.

Stiles just smiled gently, and shook his head.

But she kept trying, like if she didn't Stiles or somebody else would come in here and kill her.

Kill her for not doing her duty.

But Stiles didn't believe this was her duty. She wasn't a object they could take and abuse. Stiles didn't know how it would feel to have invading people come into your home and then rape your wife or daughter.

He would die before he let the same happen to his mother back home. So he held her hands, taking them away from her blouse while shaking his head softly.

"Don't" he whispered, wary of his Sergeant outside. That man was too war wearied to care if she didn't want it or not.

She undid more of her buttons, and Stiles adverted his eyes as her brassiere came into view.

"Nein." He said then, remembering the sergeant saying it. The girl finally halted, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Sprichst du deutsch?" She asked, and Stiles just shook his head. Guiding her over to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Nein." He said, shaking his head with a small smile. He had no idea what she was saying, but 'no' seemed to do the trick.

She lifted her hands to her blouse, looking at Stiles questioningly. Stiles grabbed his own dirty collar and mimed pulling it closed. Lydia did it willingly, and Stiles breathed a little easier.

But then they just sat there, divided by gender, race, language and culture. Stiles tired to think of something to say.

And then he remembered something his mom taught him.

The girls at school had liked it, and that was the closest experience he had that could relate to this girl.

He held out his hands, palm up and fingers spread out. She did the same, and Stiles smiled encouragingly. He gently took her hand in his, and he took the chance to marvel how soft they were. Unmarred from the calluses and scars from war.

"See this here?" He asked, trailing one finger down the crease between her thumb and the rest of her palm. "This is your heart line. It says how long you will live."

She watched patiently.

"Yours says that you will live a long life." He said, and she stared at him.

He felt a small smile come onto his face, a true smile. He hadn't known that it could have been possible in war.

"You have no idea what I'm saying, do you?" He said. The girl looked blankly at him, head tilted a little to the side.

It was cute, Stiles had to admit.

She didn't understand. But he knew something that was universal.

He gently moved forward then, and she didn't move. Only waiting. Then he wrapped his arms around her. He was dirty and grimy. He was a American solider, and she was a German girl.

But she hugged him back, small arms moving behind his back. And they sat like that for what felt like forever, just sitting there on the edge of that bed wrapped in each other's arms. Stiles coveted every second.

Affection was not something you found in war. It was fucking and fighting. Nothing sweet or innocent about it.

Stiles just felt a warmth in his chest knowing he'd at least let this piece of innocence inside her stay intact. He felt like he was rebelling against what war meant. What war was stereotyped to be. He didn't have to be horrible. He didn't have to be malicious....He could be a solider as well as being kind.

They sat there, the warmth in his chest feeling so warm and clean despite what the war had done to both of them.

And Stiles wondered, that if they had been in a different time or a different place:

...He wondered if they could have been friends.

 

_______

 

They emerged what would have been the appropriate time later, even going to the extent to make their clothes look the part. Lydia had her blouse sitting wrong on her shoulders and her skirt twisted. Stiles had a few of the top buttons of his uniform undone.

They had giggled quietly as they messed with each others clothes, making them look haphazard and just recently thrown on.

The sergeant turned to look at him as they entered, as did Lydia's mother. The sergeant only looked at them appraisingly, but Lydia's mother looked so heartbroken. Stiles felt a surge of bitter pride that he managed to save that small part of Lydia when he hadn't been a been able to save anything else.

Lydia just moved over to finish making breakfast from them all. Her mother watched her for a moment more, before joining her in their task.

Stiles sat down, and for the first time in a very long time: it was silent.

Until Jackson's voice shattered the silence like a brick to glass.

Jackson stormed in a moment later, slamming the door open violently with Scott and Isaac behind him.

"Ay!" He hollered, chewing on piece of wheat that he'd found somewhere. "We got a nice pretty slut for you to have a go at boy!"

He waltzed in, and Sties just sat looking at his superior. Derek was leaning back in his chair, eating silently. Jackson came up next to Stiles, looking down his nose at him. Stiles didn't move as the man mocking ruffled his hair: as if he was a small boy and not a eighteen year old man.

The man stared at them all for a moment, then he laughed.

"Seems you've already gone at it, you little Casanova."

Stiles didn't move. Nobody did.

He heard Jackson hit the open piano, and the brashness of the screeching sound is a harsh contrast to the lovely melody that it had produced before.

But Stiles guessed that was because instruments spoke from the soul, and Stiles could only hazard a guess that Jackson didn't have a very nice soul.

Probably damaged beyond recognition by the war against the Nazi's.

Stiles wondered if he'd end up the same.

Jackson sat down at his side, where Lydia had set her own plate. Stiles looked at her, gaze not leaving her as Jackson started messing with her egg

"That's the girls egg, Jackson." Hale's voice called out. Stiles looked down, he couldn't fight Jackson. The man was far stronger than he.

"What?" Jackson said. Hale repeated himself.

Jackson held a hand to his ear, chewing on the egg. Stiles bit down the urge to push him off his seat.

It was silent for a moment.

The sergeant called Lydia over, giving her his untouched egg and letting her sit on the piano stool behind Stiles.

"You think you're too good for us." Jackson said then. Hale turned a glare to him.

"I'm going to eat my breakfast. And you aren't going to stop me."

"...Whatever." He said, standing up. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief now that he'd had his fun.

But it wasn't over.

He felt Jackson spit out the chewed egg onto his head, mushing it into his hair.

"Stop sitting in here playing house, Sergeant." He growled. "There is a war going on outside, and hiding isn't going to make it go away."

Hale stood, slamming his hand down on the table. Stiles flinched, Jackson's hand was still in his hair. His scalp was still tender for where Hale pulled it the first time Stiles watch somebody die.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Shut the fuck up and grow a pair Coon-ass. We all know this war will still be here tomorrow. Now get out or shut up if you wanna be _seeing_ tomorrow."

It was deathly silent, Jackson slowly moved his hand from Stiles' hair and Stiles knew he was getting ready to pounce.

"Sergeant sir!" A voice called from somewhere in the building. "You've got a mission."

Stiles leant forward to push the mess from his hair and onto his plate. Looked like he won't be eating any of it after all.

Hale stood and the rest of the crew did too. Stiles turned around, opening his mouth to say something, anything, to Lydia.

But Jackson pulled him away roughly, and Stiles wondered if he found joy in destroying what little happiness others could find in this war.

He could only give Lydia one lingering glance before he was yanked out of the door. He didn't miss the look of sadness in her eyes. And he wondered if it was because she knew he would never see her again.

Because one of them would die before the month was out.

 

______

 

"We have to protect a supply train." Sergeant said. "There will be a tank guarding it, and we must take them out and establish ourselves there."

Stiles nodded, leaning against the tank. The sergeant began melding away his map as the other men started talking amongst themselves.

But everyone stopped, and Stiles was confused. But then he heard it too. The high pitched whistling growing louder and louder.

"BOMB!" Hale screamed, and everyone ran. Different directions, hoping the place the were running to wasn't the one that got hit. Stiles dived under the tank, skidding in the dirt. He held his hands over his ears, pressing his body into the ground.

And that was when the earth _shattered_.

Stiles didn't know how long he laid there, but it felt like hours. Just holding his ears between his hands and hoping this hell would end.

When he opened his eyes again, there was already people moving around. Accessing the damage of the bombs. He scrambled out from underneath the tank, eyes wide to the damage that surrounded him. Because the Germans just dropped bombs on their own town. On their own people, just to rid a few soldiers.

People had just died because they had taken this town.

Stiles blinked, looking around as his head swam. But then his eyes focused on bright red in the rubble before him. He frowned, moving closer as he eyes struggled to focus.

Then, he screamed.

" _LYDIA!_ " He cried, running towards the broken body laying in the rubble. Blood running from her head down her face with the skirt he'd just adjusted earlier now ripped to pieces.

He almost reached her when he was yanked back. Stiles felt arms wrap around him and a hand cover his mouth.

"Who do you think you are? Jesus? You gonna save her?" Jackson hissed in his ear, and Stiles screamed around his hand, fighting against him. He kicked and scratched, trying to reach Lydia just laying there in the rubble.

Because she was dead.

Lydia's was _dead_.

Jackson pulled him away and Stiles kicked at the air as he was wrenched away from the ground. Jackson held above the ground, moving his hand from Stiles' mouth to wrap around his waist. A iron, inescapable hold.

Just like the tightening band around his heart.

 _"Fuck you!"_ Stiles screamed, unable to move his eyes from Lydia's broken body as he struggled.

Because the war had taken her too. Her own people had taken her too.

Stiles went limp then, suddenly feeling so empty. Jackson held him around the waist as he fell back against the older man like a rag doll. Because he lost his fight...he lost everything. He had no anger left. No _fury_.

He was just empty.

Stiles felt Jackson pull him back to the tank, dragging his boots on the ground as he was pulled. Stiles watched Lydia's body move further away, and he just felt catatonic. Empty eyes and a broken heart.

Stiles barely felt himself be handed over to somebody else, different hands taking his limp body. He didn't hear the whispered sympathies in his ear or feel as he was pulled back inside their tank.

Because they were leaving her behind the rubble.

She was the little piece of sunshine that he found in this world of blood and bullets....And now she was gone. Because war goes on. And it takes who it wants, when it wants. Without warning and without ceremony.

She was just another soul lost to Hitler and his Nazis.

And the worst part was knowing that she'd never be buried. She would just lay and rot, amongst the millions of others that had been murdered for this war.

Stiles had to wonder what the hell it was all for.

But they left. Rolled out in their tanks surrounded by the smoke from buildings and bodies burning. The living moved on to fight another day and the dead stayed behind to rot and decay.

And Stiles couldn't decide which one he'd rather be.

 

_______

 

"See that?" The sergeant said a while later, sitting on top of Fury with Stiles. He pointed to the horizon: Where smoke rose towards the sky in scattered columns. "That's a entire city on fire."

Stiles wondered how many people had died in that once place. And he wondered if anyone cared.

"The war will end, soon." Sergeant said, nodding to himself as they rumbled along the muddy path forged through the pretty countryside from the many tanks that travelled here. Another thing that was had damaged and destroyed by this war.

"But before it does, a lot more people are going to die." He said, looking out at the horizon. Stiles nodded.

Because Stiles guessed that was his way of saying sorry.

And he took it for what it was worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Character death, bullying, violence.


	3. Welcome to The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waiting was the worst part.
> 
> They waited until there was soldiers climbing over their tank like greedy flies over a dead body. Stiles only heard the creak of them opening the hatch a second before Derek shot the man opening it.
> 
> It was the first bullet, loud and brutal like the war cry of an ancient tribe. Echoing on and on through the tank and across the clearing.
> 
> Then there was the sound of nothing but bullets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a big effort and journey for me, discovering what the war really meant. Thankyou for reading, and I hope it did the characters and the story justice.
> 
> The notes for who dies are at the end~ 
> 
> Enjoy the final chapter :)

They were driving along the road when a tank next to them was shot out.

Stiles didn't even jump.

Because he was beginning to learn to expect the worst.

The three remaining tanks veered off the road so their vulnerable sides wouldn't be showing. The faced the direction the shot came from with their cannons.

When the tank swivelled, Stiles caught eye of their aggressor.

It was a massive Nazi tank.

And Stiles was suddenly confronted by the Nazi's superior technology and weaponry. He knew they needed to take this tank out or some many people were going to die because of it.

People like Lydia.

"Go around and shoot them in the ass, it's those big tanks weakness." Derek ordered to Fury and the other two tanks.

They began to move around the tank with bullets flying as a massive cannon shot rung out and stabbed through another tank.

Stiles blocked out the screams.

" _FIRE!"_ Derek screamed as they swerved around the tank. Scott shot, and it clipped the back, making only dent in the armour.

"Again!" Derek ordered, and Jackson scrambled with Scott. Stiles just kept shooting at any dents hoping he would weaken them. Isaac kept pulling and shifting gears and levers to keep up with the violence and not leave them vulnerable.

Working as a team to make sure they wouldn't die today.

They were going around the tank for the second time when the Nazi tank changed tactics. Rather then turning with them in a violent imitation of a mating dance it charged straight for the other tank.

"Shoot the son of a bitch! He's gaining on Roy." Derek ordered, and Jackson hurried to obey. Two shots rang out in close succession...but Stiles still felt the dread sink into his heart.

They were alone.

"We are all that's left. It's up to us" Derek said, and he sounded forlorn. Stiles wondered if Roy had been his friend.

Isaac changed the gear, and they swung around to get behind the tank. The tank moved just as Scott shot at it, but it still got a decent hole in the back. Stiles focused on the hole, hoping his bullets could ricochet on the inside of the tank.

He tried not to think of the enemy as human. As the manipulated men they were...he just saw them as they people that took Lydia away. They rounded the tank in the faux mating dance when Isaac shifted something that made them swing violently.

Stiles wanted to cheer, because now they were right behind the tank.

Scott shot them square in the back

Fire flames up inside the tank, and Stiles tried to ignore the dark satisfaction rising in his heart. But it took him over, in ways he couldn't comprehend.

Because it was hot and delicious  _revenge_.

Stiles watched the officer inside jump out, and he took no hesitation to shoot him in the back. 

" _Fuck you!"_ He yelled with glee as the man crumpled, the blood lust and battle singing in his veins. " _Fuck you bastards!!!"_

Fury laughed, sitting undefeated in clearing of destruction. Stiles felt the elation of survival run in his veins. And of revenge.

It wasn't healthy, it was horrible. But this was war, and it was time he learned to harden his heart....Otherwise it would break again. He laughed with his crew, and tired to ignore the image of _her_ in his mind.

But it didn't stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks as they drove away from the death he'd helped create. 

 

________

 

They were driving along, buzzing on the high of battle. It was quiet, and Stiles tried not to think of the collateral damage.

Scott was saying something, telling a story or whatnot...when a explosion rocked through them. The tank was sent into the air, and they all were thrown. Stiles was used to feeling grounded. Weighed down by dirt and regrets. So, when they were lifted...He felt himself loose his grip on everything he'd clung to.

Stiles yelled out in confusion, clinging to his seat with white knuckles. Trying to think, to understand.

That was when the sergeant's voice came back into his reality.

"Settle down, its a mine"

Stiles breathed.

The others climbed out to examine the damage, and Stiles slowly eased his grip from the chair. Knuckle by knuckle.

"How bad is it?" He heard as he managed to make his way up to the top of the tank, leaning out of the pothole.

"Broke as fuck." Jackson grunted, standing up from where he kneeled in the mud. And Stiles could see the broken conveyor belt that made them able to move.

"Can you fix it?" Derek asked, and Stiles watched his thoughts turn over like cogs.

"Ya." Scott answered. Sergeant nodded, making a decision.

"Coon-ass and Stiles. Search that building." He said, pointing the the homestead near the railway they'd stopped next to.

Stiles nodded, climbing back into the tank to grab two guns. He swung one over his back and grabbed another before jumping out of the tank and sliding down the side to land on his feet in one smooth move.

Jackson watched him, waiting.

Stiles trudged over through the thick, wet mud and chucked Jackson his gun. Jackson caught it with a firm, callused grip.

They strode over together, and Stiles tried to ignore Jackson and focus on the environment around them. You could call him paranoid, but then you obviously wouldn't know what it was like to fight in a war. Stiles did, now.

He'd killed enough.

He swung the gun in front of him, holding it out to the broken windows as they approached. Ready to kill anything that appeared.

Because it was him, or _them_.

Everyone he fought against was trying to kill him. So, he had to match that in order to not die a horrible death.

They were here to kill him.

So he would have to be there to kill them.

Jackson put a dirt stained hand on his hip as they approached, Stiles stopped immediately. Jackson's eyes were narrowed, hand digging crueling into his hipbone, and Stiles could see the _focus, idiot_ in his eyes.

Stiles huffed, but didn't advance until he'd removed himself from his thoughts. You couldn't think in war, it wasn't about strategy on the front lines.

It was blood and dirt. Killing and bodies.

You only had time to shoot if you wanted to live. No time for thinking, pondering. That's what got you killed.

Stiles' eyes focused, and Jackson let him go. He walked up to the door, and Stiles used the tip of his rifle to push open the door. It swung open in a cloud of dust, and Jackson leapt forward gun ready to shoot at anything that moved.

Nothing moved.

Because the room was filled with dead bodies.

Stiles swallowed, burying his nose into his collar. Jackson huffed, swinging his gun over his shoulder and pulling out a cigarette. Stiles sighed, trying not to look at the IV drips and bandages that had all been in vain.

"Nobody here. Can we go back?" He asked. Jackson sat on the edge of one of the tables that had served as a hospital bed. Stiles stayed where he was, eyes on Jackson so he wouldn't have to look at anything else. He didn't like Jackson, but at least Jackson was alive.

They stayed in silence as Jackson slowly depleted his cigarette.

"I'm an asshole." Jackson started, flicking his cigarette. Stiles barely even thought of the fire risk. Because at least then these bodies would turn to ashes. And those ashes could fly away, far away from this place.

"And you? I think you are good man. That's what I think. We ain't. But you are. I'll tell you that."

Stiles just stood, shifting the rifle on his back. He didn't know what to say. He didn't like Jackson, and Jackson didn't like him. But, they were Fury together. And Stiles had learned that anyone that wasn't actively trying to kill you was a friend.

The silence echoed his thanks for him.

Jackson nodded in return, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder.

"Let's go."

And Stiles knew they had reached an understanding.

 

________

 

"Stiles, go be an outpost. Keep watch." Derek said as soon as he returned with Jackson. Stiles sighed, feeling exhausted and tense with a pressure building under his skull.

He began to walk off in the directions Derek pointed in when the man threw something at him.

Crackers and a canteen of water, Stiles felt his stomach rumble in appreciation. He smiled a little at the man and the man just shooed him on. He climbed up the small muddy hill to the forrest line. He found a tree with dry-ish ground beneath it and almost collapsed.

He leant back against the tree.

And he _breathed_.

After a moment of feeling the fresh air on his skin and the silence in his ears, he cracked open his packet of rations.

It was strange.

...He felt almost _content_.

Sitting in the middle of Germany, the Middle of Nazi territory...and it was silent. This was the front line, and Stiles realised the front line wasn't always confrontations.

Sometimes it was the waiting in the dirt. It wasn't always bullets, it was also strategy.

He found it hard to believe considering the hell these past two weeks had been. They had never had a break, so it just seemed to strange.

And if he closed his eyes...he could almost imagine he was at home. Sitting under a tree on his farm in the warm Californian wind. Reading a book or something.

But the weight in his hand was not a book.

It was a gun. A gun he'd used to kill people. Kill people because otherwise they would kill him...and what was the point? Who was wining? But, Stiles knew the answer:

Nobody.

Nobody was winning. Everyone was dying.

The world was _dying_.

Battles spanning across the surface of the earth, unlikely allies teaming together to try and end it all. Explosions. Bombs. Bullets. It was tearing the world apart, ripping up earth and destroying _eveything_ they'd worked for. Destroying history and religion. Annihilating ancient paintings etched in stone and shrines hundreds of years old. Destroying everything that _made_ the human race.

They were killing themselves.

And Stiles found the only reason why he chose not to end himself right here was the fact that it was _all_ ending soon. But, it wasn't ending because the allies were winning, not really.

...Because you couldn't win after you'd lost so much.

 

________

 

Stiles was resting his head back against the unforgiving bark when he heard it.

The marching.

Stiles' head snapped up, and he looked down the other side of the hill, past the trees. There were soldiers, trucks...weapons. All Nazi.

And they were coming this way.

Stiles was on his feet and running within seconds. He ran down the hill towards the Fury, dashing out of the trees and tearing down the escarpment. Fury came into view, and he started screaming.

" _RUN!"_ He screamed, barreling into them. Derek caught him, hands firm on his shoulders as he sought Stiles' crazed eyes.

"What? Stiles!" He demanded, everyone was looking at him.

"They are coming right now." Stiles heaved, lungs demanding more oxygen than he could provide. "The Nazi's."

He watched shock run through everyone.

"How many?" Derek asked.

"Hundreds. I couldn't count" Stiles said, and his voice was shaking. Derek's face tensed up as he realised what Stiles was trying to tell him.

"...It's a goddamn SS battalion."

Scott dropped the spanner into the mud.

"If we leave now we can make it back to base by nightfall." Scott said, throwing equipment and gear back into his tool bag. "Come on, we gotta move."

Jackson and Isaac started moving with Scott, and they grabbed everything they could carry. Stiles watched, confused and waiting. Derek hadn't moved. Everyone stopped as they noticed it too.

"..This is my home." Derek began. "I'm not leaving it. I gotta hold this crossroad."

"Are you _fucking_ _insane_ Derek?!" Jackson thundered. "In case you haven't noticed, we are sitting ducks here. Our tank can't move!"

"I'm staying. Feel free to leave if you must." Derek said, and he sounded awfully calm for a man about to die...But, then again: he'd been cheating death for a very long time.

They all had.

Stiles stared at the white FURY painted on the cannon, and he swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

"I'll stay." Stiles whispered. Derek looked at him, and Stiles thought he looked proud. But then it was gone:

...and he just looked _sad_.

"Fuck." Scott muttered, throwing down his bags. "We all are."

And Stiles thought it was nice to at least die for this legacy than for nothing at all.

 

_________

 

They stocked up on everything they could, even going to the extent to throw some old bodies from the homestead onto the tank to make it look abandoned.

Surprise was the only thing that could save them now.

But Stiles didn't think about that.

He couldn't.

 

__________

 

The waiting was the worst part.

They waited until there was soldiers climbing over their tank like greedy flies over a dead body. Stiles only heard the creak of them opening the hatch a second before Derek shot the man opening it.

It was the first bullet, loud and brutal like the war cry of an ancient tribe. Echoing on and on through the tank and across the clearing.

Then there was the sound of nothing but bullets.

And the dull thud of bodies falling was swallowed by it.

 

________

 

Stiles barely felt the tank shift as a heavy shot pierced it.

But he heard Jackson's dying gasp and Scott's piercing scream.

He just kept shooting. Shooting and shooting. Mowing down the enemy, and they just kept going. Kept coming at the tank, loyal to the very end. Stiles wondered how fucked in the head they had become from all the manipulation and propaganda shoved into their brains.

He wondered if anyone from home would notice if they died. If they were really worth anything to Hitler, or just little pawns in his world wide game of war.

Scott threw himself over Jackson's dead body, sobbing horribly into the small of his back. Blood ran freely from the gaping hole in Jackson's torso and stained Scott's knees in blood.

"God damnit!!!" The man screamed, but the guns keep firing and the bullets kept flying.

And Stiles could feel hot tears running down his cheeks as he shot a man in the head.

 

_________

 

It was endless, and Stiles couldn't feel his fingers anymore. His trigger finger should have been complaining. But he was just going numb. Watching countless soldiers cover the ground with his bullets in their skulls.

And he just kept firing. And they fell one by one.

Scott was crying, hell, they all were. But there was no time to mourn. They could mourn when they were dead...Which didn't seem all that far away.

Derek was yelling at them as more enemy approached, Scott was loading and firing with reckless abandon.

"Right! RIGHT!" Derek screamed.

"Yes sir!" Stiles yelled back, shifting his gun and let the bullets fly. He didn't even watch as the solider fell.

He just turned back to the front and shot anything that moved.

Stiles heard the clang of something landing on metal over the sounds of bullet fire echoing off the tank. And he felt more than heard Isaac gasp next to him. He turned to see the man, tigger still firing to make up for his divided attention.

" _GRENADE!"_ Stiles screamed, but he couldn't move. He could onto stare at the object that was seconds away from killing them all.

Before a hand shot out and grabbed it....and a millisecond later the muted _bang_ echoed through the hollow tank and through Stiles' head.

Blood splashed across his face, and Stiles _screamed_ : loud and piecing, cutting off guttural and sick.

Isaac was slumped over his gun. And Stiles was glad. Because now he wouldn't see the bone, blood and organs that had been ripped apart by the explosion.

_Because Isaac had saved his life._

Stiles cried, sobs wrecking through his chest as he turned from Isaac's militated body and shot at the enemy with reckless abandon.

"FUCK YOU!" He screamed as he shot one after the other. Through the eyes, through the heart, through the God damned brain. _"Fuck you all!"_

He heard Derek curse behind him, but they didn't stop. They never stopped.

They couldn't.

 

_________

 

Stiles didn't know what happened to Scott.

He was just...gone.

But that's what war was. There was no parade, no announcement....No funeral. But Stiles knew he was dead. And that was the only thing he was sure of.

Because the only thing war did was take and destroy.

 

_________

 

Soon it was just Derek and Stiles.

But they didn't last long. Because Fury was five. They could fight like cornered cats, but they were scraping at the bottom of a barrel. They were only two.

...They weren't Fury anymore.

Stiles was amazed at Derek's skill. He was powerful, vicious. Deadly. But it wasn't enough...it was _never_ enough. Fury was five, and they couldn't protect themselves anymore. They couldn't make the tank function. But, that didn't matter anyway.

They were out of bullets, and out of time.

Derek was fighting with a hand weapon as the enemy clambered over their tank, shooting and shooting and _shooting_. Shooting even when he got shot.

He never stopped.

They were close. The end was close. But Stiles was too numb to be afraid. He should be absolutely terrified.

But he couldn't feel anything.

He thought maybe that it would all come back later. That he would fall into a dark and deep depression. But that was if he lived. Because, right now: he was numb. Terror and confusion were just... _gone_.

He'd never felt more alive.

And it was ironic, because he was just about to die.

The enemy stopped attacking for a seconds, the constant attacks ceasing. Stiles looked up, listening for their clanging footsteps. He felt perfectly level headed, but it was going away. The numbness was going away. Stiles didn't want it too.

He didn't want to feel anything.

Because he could never have another emotion that wasn't angry or sad. All happiness had been _taken_ from him.

"Stiles." Derek said. And Stiles suddenly remembered he was dying. He clambered over to his sergeant, hands shaking so violently that he dropped his gun somewhere.

He didn't even notice.

Because he wasn't numb anymore. The adrenaline was gone. Everything was gone. He felt empty and scared. So. Fucking _. Scared._ He tried to push down on Derek's wound, but all he did was cover his own hands in blood.

"Stiles." Derek said again. Stiles' scared eyes snapped up to meet his only two inches away.

Derek pointed up with a bloody hand, to the hatch he'd managed to close as he fell, after he'd been shot. Stiles heard some equipment moving above them.

" _Grenade_." He whispered, blood on his lips. Stiles swallowed, and Derek looked sad. _So_ sad. "There's...escape hatch. Under your seat." he whispered again.

He lifted a hand to Stiles' head. Stiles ducked his head to Derek's touch, hiding his face against Derek's chest. Derek tsked, and tugged his head up by his hair. But it wasn't harsh like it had been every other time. It didn't hurt.

He was being so _gentle_.

...And Stiles started to cry.

"It's okay, Stiles." Derek whispered. And Stiles could see what he meant: the Nazi's didn't know he was here. They'd seen Derek.

But they didn't know Stiles was still alive. And Derek was letting him escape...Letting him _live_.

"I.." Stiles gasped. "I...I _can't_."

"Yes you can." Derek said, and his voice was hard. Familiar and strong. And Stiles knew then Derek was not going to let him die. Not if he could help it.

...Because then he could die knowing he'd saved one.

Derek's hand carded through his hair, feeling the blood and sweat clumped strands. But, he didn't seem to mind. And Stiles didn't move, hoping this moment would last. Because once it left Derek would be gone with it.

And Derek knew it too.

"Go, Stiles." He said, and it was both forceful and gentle.

The warrior and the friend.

Stiles put a hand on Derek's cheek without thinking. He felt Derek's warmth beneath his palm, and he clung to it with everything he had.

" _Go_ " Derek said.

And Stiles stared into his eyes for one last time, memorising everything he could. Memorising something that he could remember him by. But, he didn't really need to.

Because he'd always remember Fury.

Derek brought him forward, and Stiles let him. Derek nosed at Stiles hairline, seeming to try and remember Stiles. Stiles said nothing.

Because they were both clinging to things they'd soon lose.

"Run, Stiles. And stay there until they are gone." He said into Stiles' hair. "Don't come back for me, for anyone."

Stiles sobbed.

He clung to Derek, grasping at anything he could hold. Anything he could remember.

"Run."

And then he was gone.

He lifted the seat and dropped down the hatch. He didn't shut it though, because he looked back at Derek sitting on that little platform.

The hatch above him opened, and he was bathed in light. Stiles' eyes were glued to the light that seemed to heal everything that had been broken. Derek looked up at the soldiers hovering over the porthole, and he  _grinned_. Cruel and abrupt. Harsh. Bitter. _Angry_.

Stiles dropped down the hatch the same time the grenade hit the steel floor.

He fell into the ground, and he _sobbed_.

Stiles laid in the mud, trying to bury himself into the substance he once hated. The substance was now his friend, compared to the blood and the pain that stained everything else.

It was then that Stiles heard the bang echo from inside the tank. He closed his eyes tightly, filthy hand over his mouth to stop his cries. Aching, filthy, mourning and so goddamned cold.

He laid in the cold mud, covered in blood and filth in a field of dead bodies. Both enemy and friend...but none of them deserved it. Nobody deserved this.

Stiles sobbed, ugly and harsh even after all the soldiers were gone.

...And he hoped to God that Hitler would burn in deepest circle of hell for this.

 

_______

 

_We are but memories, re-lived only by those willing to remember us._

 

_______

 

Stiles had to write a report on Derek's handling of the situation. And it was fucking _stupid_.

He stared at typewriter for hours, eyes blank and heart broken. Finally, he had enough of it. Enough of this war. Enough pain and suffering....He just had _enough_.

Stiles was trained to write sixty words a minute.

He wrote one.

"FURY."

He ripped the page from the typewriter, tearing out of his tent and slamming it onto his supervisors table. The man looked up at him, wide eyes meeting Stiles' own enraged ones.

"Wanna explanation?" He barked. "This is it. This was us. We were the Fury. We did our best, fought our hardest: And died for it. The only reason why I am alive is because of my Sergeant. He was good man, and he doesn't deserve this criticism. We did nothing wrong. It is the war that did us wrong."

Stiles leaned forward, almost nose to nose with the man. He knew this wasn't respectful, not in the slightest. But the only man worthy of his respect was his sergeant.

And he was dead.

"Stop playing your political games and give him his _fucking medal_." Stiles seethed.

And with that, he walked away.

Into the world of mud and the dirt that had become his home. We're he had fought and died with his crew.

His Fury.

He walked away. And he didn't stop walking.

Because there was nothing left anymore.

 

_________

 

The war finished a month later. And yet Stiles was still walking aimlessly.

...Because he'd lost his Fury.

Fury wasn't just noun. It was a life force. It was a emotion. Living, breathing. In the minds and hearts of five men. And now it was ripped away, gone, scattered in the wind. Lost with the fifty million others that had been lost too. Now reduced to lost and wandering souls, torn from life so violently and unexpectedly.

Because there was nothing left anymore....Not for anyone. Lives lost. Homes destroyed. Relationships broken. Minds scattered.

Everything was broken.

Broken hearts and torn up towns. Worldwide rubble and sorrow. There was no point going home. No point trying to return to what once was. You _couldn't_. Nobody could. Nothing was the same anymore. The world was one big gaping, _pulsing_ , wound that had yet to heal. And even when it did heal, a ugly and ragged scar would be left on its wake.

The world would never fully heal from this betrayal.

Because all trust was gone.

People would live in their homes, sleeping in their beds as they felt the phantom tremors of bombs dropping on their towns throwing them awake. They would refuse to turn the lights on at night, afraid of awakening the unseen demons that still laid in wait.

People would stare at the ground, either dirt or cobblestone: and wonder how much blood was spilled there.

It was cleaned away, absorbed into the ground.

But it couldn't be forgotten.

Because there was no strength left. Downcast eyes and weakened hearts, no emotion apart from bitter self pity and regret. There was nothing. No perseverance. No passion. No _fury_.

There was nothing left to put them back together again.

Because Fury was gone.

And Stiles had left with it.

 

__________

 

Stiles' sergeant had no family left, and he didn't have any friends apart from his squad either. He devoted everything to the war that ended up taking his life too.

Stiles would have liked to see one of Derek's friends do this duty. It was only right, seeing as he, himself, only know the man for less than a month. But they were all dead.

Except for him.

And it was strange to think himself a friend to Derek. Things like friends didn't exist in war. But, if they had been in a different place, a different time away from this gutting war...Stiles thought they might have been friends.

So Stiles had accepted his final duty.

...As he was handed Derek's folded flag.

The commander had told him that it he was Derek's next of kin. Stiles hardly understood, until he'd shown Stiles the paperwork Derek had filled in.

_"All my shit goes to my squad, and if they are dead too then fuck you."_

Stiles had smiled sadly at that.

Because it was so perfectly Derek that it _hurt_. Like he was yelling at Stiles through that scratchy handwriting even after he was gone, his harsh and yet so fucking _kind_ voice echoing in Stiles' head.

So when the ceremony was called at the families stood up, Stiles stood with them. They stood in front of their loved ones graves, sobbing as they stood. Over Isaac's grave there was a brown curly haired woman, and Stiles could see how much she had loved him.

He wondered if she had anyone left now.

But she stood so strong, hands shaking like leaves in a storm. But she stood, accepting the flag with a determined gaze. And Stiles was glad she wasn't the one that had to watch him die.

But Stiles did.

He watched these men die. Listened to the weapon that took them. He heard their dying screams and the screams that didn't even have the chance to sound.

Stiles accepted his flag, and his hands weren't shaking at all.

The flag felt so soft, so pure and clean. So different from the familiar dirt between his fingers and the weight of the gun in his hands. He idly caressed the flags smooth surface, and it felt so different from Derek's stubbled face. The face he'd held in the bare few moments before he died. Before Derek had saved his life.

And he let Derek die.

_"It's not your fault. Fucktard."_

Stiles remembered his determined stare. Like by a stare alone he could make Stiles do as he asked, even when his body couldn't move anymore. Stiles smiled weakly, staring at nothing but memories circling in his head.

...And that was when the first tear fell.

But Stiles didn't sob. He didn't join the masses. He just stood, dressed in clean and unfamilar soldiers regalia over Derek's grave.

And he let the tears fall. Staring out into nothing as the world mourned.

Crying wouldn't fix anything now, Stiles knew. It wouldn't fix the world. Wouldn't bring back the lives lost or rewind the time taken from them all.

It wouldn't help at all.

But he couldn't hold them back. He couldn't help but mourn the men he'd hardly knew and yet trusted with his _life_.

He cried. Along with the millions of others that now had to stand over graves...And the ones that didn't have graves at all. Stiles cried with them, even though it could never fix what had been done.

Because this world was broken.

And only time could fix it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles does not die in this story.
> 
> But there is death, and lots of it. This is war, people.
> 
> Lydia, Jackson, Isaac, Scott and Derek are the named characters that die, in chronological order. Many more do, but they are nameless in this story
> 
> There is mild gore, weaponry, blood, hate, revenge. But there is also innocence, friendship and protective Derek. Also, evidence of Christianity: but it is mild. 
> 
> Also, if you guys would like to understand what really happened to the Jewish community within Nazi Germany, a pretty accurate description is within a movie called Schindler's List.
> 
> But, that is all. Thank you for reading, and please be nice in the comments. Feel free to discuss if you must, but be wary that there may be those that come across this that have had family involved in these circumstances.
> 
> Lots of love, everyone!
> 
> God Bless.
> 
> -SephrinaRose


End file.
